None of us have been to The Purring Pot yet so that’s where we’ve decided to meet. It’s on the edge of the merchant’s quarter and the tent city near the town square so we’ve all walked by it many times. Half of the establishment is under a great awning that stretches out into that sea of peaked canvas. Under it are rows and rows of picnic tables where baby adventurers are tucking in. It’s a boisterous, good natured crowd that I hope is more indicative of the quality of the meal than its price.

Inside there are more tables and booths along with a long counter supplied with stools. Behind it is a truly gigantic cauldron, maybe ten feet in diameter, situated inside an even larger fireplace. Two other, normal-sized pots simmer alongside their big sister. To the right of the hearth is a bread oven, to its left is a conventional wood burning stove, and in front of it all is the proprietor and chief cook, Misha, an honest-to-god catgirl, the first I’ve seen.

From what I understand the nekojin, as they’re known here, tend to be shorter than humans and twice as moody. They’ve got ears that stretch from where they do for most sapient species, up to points atop either side of their heads, covered in fur. Their ears are just as expressive as their tails. Misha herself is tan and slender with dark brown hair and fur. Her large eyes are the same color and full of happiness. Her smile is broad, sparkling, and welcoming despite the long canines above and below. 

“Deputies!” she crows, her arms flung wide. “It's about time you came to visit us!”

We hear a few cheers and Wendy waves. I nod and grin. Caedi blushes.

There are three spots open at the bar, though one patron is asked to scoot down one so that Caedi, Wendy, and I can all sit together in a row. The man rolls his eyes, smiles, and obliges.

Wendy says, “You must be Misha. I’m Wendy. This other gnome is Mark, my husband, and this is Caedi.”

“I am Misha,” says the nekojin, twitching her ears and swishing her tail. “It’s wonderful to meet you all. Welcome to Fort Reach and The Purring Pot.” Here she crosses her arms, cocks a hip, and purrs loud enough to be heard over the din of her establishment. She giggles. “We have stew,” she says. The points at the big cauldron. “That’s been cooking for seven months and that’s the house special. The others are a seafood stew and a special spicy ragout we call that only receives the more exotic meats found in the ruins and more dangerous places in the forest. Now, normally, this is the first place adventurers eat when they get here and I treat them to a meal. I hope you don’t mind if I offer you the same? I’ll be offended if you refuse. Everybody’s first meal here is free, so it’s not because you’re deputies.”

“We’ll be glad to accept,” says Wendy. “And thank you so much for your kindness.”

“It’s more tradition than kindness,” says Misha. “Besides, most people get here without two coins to rub together and end up eating here exclusively when not in the field for the first few months so it ends up paying, especially when they find they like the food. It’s cheap but good, I promise, though the ragout can be rough for those with sensitive palates. Mrr, maybe one of each? That way you can taste them all and know what you want next time you come to see me?”

Caedi, Wendy, and I all look at each other. I shrug and Caedi smiles.

Wendy says, “That sounds great. Bring us a bowl of each and we’ll pass them around.”

“Each bowl comes with a quarter loaf of bread and a flagon of apple cider,” says Misha.

“That sounds great,” I say.

Caedi says, “Oh yes, thank you.”

Misha beams and is soon back with all three bowls, loaves, and flagons balanced in her hands and arms.

Everything is better than I was expecting. The seafood stew is peppery and isn’t too fishy. The house special is primarily beef and savory and the ragout is not quite spicy enough to make me sweat. The choice of vegetables is broad but blends well, some of which I can even identify. The bread is a little dry but it’s served with a knife and a small bowl of butter, which helps cut the heat of the ragout, plus I see many diners around us using the bread to clean the inside of their bowls, so I guess that works out. It's all pretty good. I think I like the ragout best and that's what I end up eating, with Wendy tackling the seafood, and Caedi the house special. 

Misha stops by several times to talk, asking how we like town so far, and how our trip out was. She asks many cogent questions about the bandit raid. She doesn’t mention Crocus’s murder at all and that can’t be because she hasn’t heard about it. More likely she already knows there haven’t been any developments to speak of. When she’s not playing host for her customers, she hurries from place to place, stirring the pots, adding various things to each without any rhyme or reason I can see. It looks like she employs three other staff that push sturdy carts through the tables with food going out up top and dirty dishes in the bin below. I suppose there must be somebody in the back washing them, probably her husband.

When I inquire she giggles and puts a hand on my arm. “Oh sweetie,” she says. “I’m not married. That’s Nilgar in the back. He’s a big orc and he’s also the bouncer if I need one which I rarely do.” She turns away but looks over her shoulder and purrs, “It’s sweet of you to ask.” She glances at Wendy and then back to me. “You’re both so cute!” Then she giggles and pounces to a customer at the other end of the counter.

“That wasn’t…. I wasn’t—,” I say. “Shit.”

Wendy and Caedi are laughing at me.

Wendy says, "Why'd you assume she was married?"

It's because she's beautiful and older than I am by five or six years but I don't want to say so out loud, so I smile, shrug, and go on eating.

"Dork," says Wendy. "Donut."

Things are odd between us. I wouldn’t say they’re uncomfortable. I’m not. Not really. They don’t seem to be either. It’s just that now there’s this secret, you know? It has weight and it keeps me from being able to totally relax even though I trust them both and know that, whatever it is, it can’t be that big a deal.

I’m not certain but I think they feel that too. I don’t ask. I leave it alone. I gave my word.

There’s a pull on the sleeve of my gambeson. I look down to find Simmy, the kid Deputy Swyft sent to get me for the Crocus murder.

The boy points back at the Summerleaf Inn across the street. “There’s a fight! Come quick!”

 

 

When we get there we find a man dead on the floor and a halfling being restrained by a couple of guards. I don’t think they’re caravan guards. They tend to wear breastplates and these guys are in studded leather. I don’t think they’re in the employ of the inn either. They're too rough and smell of beer. Several of the establishments in town hire security for their own private purposes and that’s my guess here.

The inn, like The Purring Pot, is on the edge of the tent city and as such, it’s the cheapest one in town. That’s not to say its not homey. There’s a big, round, bright green door with its knob in the center, halfling-style. The common room floor is covered with thick rugs, each of a different pattern, that still somehow blends well and doesn’t disturb the eye. There’s fruit and bread on every table. The small bar is well-appointed and the front desk is plain but made of a lovely dark wood.

I remember Sinda telling us the inn was owned by her sister. I wonder if Sinda's the one being held. She's got blood on her hands and down her front.  Her head is wreathed in tight red curls. Her large eyes are flashing every which way but she holds herself still in the grip of the two human men who have her.

The dead man looks familiar but I can’t place him. I’m sure it’ll come to me.

Another halfling woman with a similar round face and chubby cheeks is standing on the bar. Her curls are a dark brown. “You let her go right now,” she shouts. “I saw the whole thing from start to finish.” Her face is flushed with anger, her bare, hairy feet are stomping on the bar. 

I don’t see Swyft or Cronk here so I guess we’re up.

I say, “Miss?” The halfling on the bar looks like she’s in her late twenties, early thirties. “You saw it?”

“Oh, hello deputy,” says the woman as she sees me. Then she sees who's with me. “Deputies. Yes, I saw it. Tim gave Sinda a shove and called her a thief. He drew his sword. Sinda drew her blades.” She points at the floor where two long daggers lay bloody. “She barely knocked his first two thrusts aside. It happened right here in front of me and the bar was full. There wasn’t a way for her to get away or move around. He stood as good a chance at killing one of my other customers as he did my sister. We were all shouting but he wouldn’t stop. She… she stabbed him and he fell. It was self defense!”

I look at Sinda who says nothing.

I remember her saying how she was regarded in town. People think she’s a thief. She can’t find employment and she’s lonely. This sucks.

“I can’t ask them to let you go just now,” I tell her. “But are they hurting you?”

She gives her head one shake. She’s breathing hard. She must’ve seen Caedi by now but she’s given no sign of recognition. I don’t know how I feel about that because it means she's a practiced liar. That doesn't mean she's guilty, of course.

Wendy says, “Do you know why Tim though you’d stolen from him?”

I remember now. The dead man is Tim Bickle. We had to stop him from trying to kill that Twist guy on our first night here. I got the impression that Tim was a regular problem. I have a feeling that his end won’t surprise many.

Sinda shakes her head again.

I turn to the men holding her. “Did she have any chance to hide anything? Was she ever out of your sight?”

“Nope,” says the bigger one.

“We grabbed her right away,” says the other. “A little late though. Gotta grab ‘em both at the same time or run the risk of holding them still for the other guy to run ‘em through. I learnt that the hard way once. Blade went right through that poor bastard’s guts and into mine for my trouble. Sorry. Uh, if she took anything she's still got it on her.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” I say. “Thanks for helping out. You’re not caravan guards, are you?”

“Naw,” says the big one. “Mr. Frent hired us as security. We was here having dinner and a drink.”

I nod.

I look back at Sinda. “Did you steal from this man?” I nod at the corpse.

She shakes her head.

I look at Wendy, who nods. 

I say, “Okay.” Sinda’s wearing a long red tunic over tight leather pants. The tunic buttons down to her thick belt which contains three small pouches and two empty scabbards. “Would it be okay if Deputy Caedi searches you? Just to make sure and satisfy everybody that you’re innocent?”

Sinda looks up at Caedi and I couldn’t swear to it but I think her expression softens and she calms a bit. I could be imagining it. She nods.

Caedi starts with the pouches. There’s some string, some loose coins, a few squares of cloth, and a series of long thin picks on a ring.

“Them are thieves' tools,” says the bigger guard.

I nod. “She’s an adventurer. The stealthy type that deals with traps and locked doors,” I say. In a role-playing game, yes, she’d be a thief or a rogue but I doubt either label would help her right now.

The big guy shrugs.

Caedi pats her down next, starting with Sinda’s shoulders, and when she gets to the halfling’s waist she pauses.

Sinda flinches. She looks confused.

Caedi says, “You’ve got something in your tunic?”

“My coin purse,” says Sinda, but she’s frowning.

“May I unbutton a couple of buttons,” says Caedi gesturing at the buttons over Sinda’s stomach. “And reach in for it?”

Sinda blushes but nods.

Caedi pulls out two coin purses, one is plain leather and clinks. The other is black fabric with an embossed T.B. It’s nearly flat.

“That isn’t mine,” says Sinda.

“We know,” says the bigger guard.

She scowls up at him.

Caedi reaches back in and pulls out a thin letter opener. It’s gold with a single ruby fixed in the handle.

I hear a gasp from the crowd. I look over and see a tall human man there pointing at it. He says, “That’s Mr. Crocus’s! The insurance agent. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

I look at Sinda.

“That’s not mine either,” she says.